


The Music Shop

by YaniCardaria



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Childhood, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:15:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23879764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YaniCardaria/pseuds/YaniCardaria
Summary: He had only seen one once before in a music class they used to give at school, but he recognized it right away.  It was the top of a piano, brown and maybe a bit dusty, and he desperately wanted to see it up close.
Kudos: 15





	The Music Shop

**Author's Note:**

> I have this little head-canon that Illya is a wonderfully proficient piano player; he often will lose himself in the music. 
> 
> It's just a secret. And he only plays for himself. 
> 
> This drabble is how he started. I wrote it years ago and never intended to post it, but here we are. Unbeta'd.

There had been this old music shop a few blocks from his house. Everyday Illya would pass it on his way to and from school. If he had time, he would sometimes glance through the windows where he could catch glimpses of the instruments and full bookshelves. He didn’t know all their names, but there were a few things that looked like big violins leaning against stands by the window and if he squinted he could make out a harp that sat in back corner. However, what really caught his attention was what he could see peeking out from behind a bookshelf that seemed to hold thousands of papers and skinny books. He had only seen one once before in a music class they used to give at school, but he recognized it right away. It was the top of a piano, brown and maybe a bit dusty, and he desperately wanted to see it up close.

It wasn’t until his father had disappeared and his mother had begun to tell him to play outside after school that he finally decided to go into the store. His heart hammered nervously as he stood in front of the door before he realized that he was being ridiculous. He was Russian – there was no reason to be afraid. Taking one final breath, he gently pushed the door open and walked inside. A quick glance showed that the counter was empty, so he made a beeline around the bookshelf and straight to the piano. It was beautiful. The old brown wood had a warm finish that drew him in close and the row of shiny black and white keys beckoned him to touch.

He took another quick glance and then, feeling brave, pressed a white key softly. Nothing happened. Disappointed, he pressed the key again, harder this time. A single, clear, solid note rang out in the quiet music store, and he quickly snatched his hand away, looking around to see if he was being watched. Seeing no one, his gaze returned the row of black and white keys and he licked his lips nervously. The note had been beautiful. He wanted to hear what the other notes would sound like. Biting his lip and adjusting his stance slightly, he brought his hands to the keys once more, pausing to take in the contrast. His finger nails were dirty from playing outside and his hands looked horribly scruffy against the gleaming keys, but there was no one here to scold him.

He pressed the same note, smiling slightly as the piano made a sound, and then slowly pressed the next white key up, then the next, and then the next. He continued this for another nine notes before he brought his hand up to a black key, pressing it with newfound confidence. He gasped as the sound. It was a piano note, that was obvious – but it sounded different. The pitch didn’t match the white keys. He gingerly pressed other black keys and marveled at how each one sounded just a bit off. Why? Was the piano broken? Did he break it?

“They are sharps and flats.” He jumped at the sound of a raspy voice behind him, backing away from the piano with a guilty expression on his face. There was an old woman there, her powdery white hair wrapped in a violently pink handkerchief, with clear gray eyes. She was assessing the faint smudges of dirt he had left on the keys with an unreadable expression.

“Sorry,” he apologized, backing up further until his legs bumped into the piano chair. Her gaze drifted to him and she looked him up and down as he shifted nervously in place.

“You will have big hands,” she said, reaching above the piano to adjust a picture that sat there. There was a man sitting at a piano, his gaze confident and a little mischievous. “Sit,” she ordered, walking behind Illya to rest her hands on his shoulders. She pushed gently and he sat on the bench with a thump. “My husband had big hands,” she continued, patting his shoulder gently before shuffling to stand next to him. “Your curiosity would have made him happy.” He gazed at the keys again, then turned to look at her.

“Sharps and flats?” He tilted his head, eyes drifting back to the black keys. She smiled, giving his pale blond hair a light ruffle, and then brought down a book that had been resting next to the picture frame.

“I will teach you.”


End file.
